Page 16 of The Perfect Play

Gripping the ball deep in the palm of my hand, I let my arm circle and let go of it, watching it almost float toward the target. I loved watching the ball dance in the air before it hit the catcher’s mitt, usually fooling the batter into swinging.

“Do you mind if I catch a few?” Jake asked, moving between me and the rubber mat. He crouched on his haunches, his glove poised on one of the corners of the home plate before him.

What was I going to say? No? When I had someone who would throw the balls back to me, I couldn’t really pass that up.

I threw the same pitch, a bit disappointed that it ended up two inches away from the corner. Ball.

Jake threw it back, his arm moving and all the muscles flexing at the same time. Distracted, I almost forgot to catch it and was glad my reflexes moved fast enough for me to snag it without looking like some beginner.

“You’re still making that extra movement I was talking about at the game the other day. When you play against the bigger schools, they’re going to notice and wait for it.”

My attention snapped back to his face instead of his body, a flame of irritation igniting in my stomach.

I threw again, and Jake shook his head. “Same thing.”

Suddenly wishing he hadn’t invited himself over, I said, “I don’t get what you mean. I’m doing everything I do with all my other pitches.”

Jake strode to me, and when he stopped in front of me, it took a moment to catch my breath. What was my problem? This was Jake White, the kid who’d betrayed me, left me to fend for myself through the darkest times of my life, and my body was now the traitor.

He moved behind me, his arms covering mine and leaving a trail of goosebumps. His left wrist held mine on the glove hand, and his right hand covered my hand with the ball. When he spoke next to my ear, I felt the tingles all the way to my toes.

“Start like you normally do.” He brought my hands together, hiding the ball in the glove. “When you go to rock back, your hand moves an extra couple of seconds before you even move forward.” He moved my hand a couple of times and then pulled my arm back in the regular motion.

“Okay,” I said, unable to move a muscle after he let go of my arms. It took everything within me to focus on what he’d been trying to tell me and not the way he smelled like guys deodorant and something like the beach.

I pitched another one and glanced over at him. Big mistake as my stomach flipped itself over from the bright smile on his face.

“Yes! That was it. Now just make sure to do that one every time.”

“Sure. Easy.” I tried to make my voice sarcastic, but I was pulled in by the way his eyes stared into mine.

He resumed his spot behind the plate, and I took a deep breath. I’d done this with him so many times back in the day. Why did this time feel so different?

Probably because at the age of thirteen, Jake hadn’t filled out yet. He’d shot up several inches during seventh grade and still had that gawky, skinny-teenager look to him. I’d thought he was cute then, but this new filled-out physique seemed to be making my nervous system lose complete control of its responsibilities.

I threw a couple more pitches, feeling as if my brain was sucking away all the energy I had just to get the ball forty-three feet to him and get it to hit a decent spot.

“Riseball,” I said, flipping the ball in my hand as my fingers found the grip. It was the one pitch that threw every baseball player off as it was nearly impossible for their pitchers to throw something that broke upward when throwing overhand. I’ll admit I needed a little ego boost after his critique.

“So you mean a fastball that doesn’t break?” Jake asked, that cocky smile flashing at me again.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came. Better to just show him how far I’d come.

My leg came forward at the same time as my arm, landing to give me the momentum to spin the ball up. The ball started on a flat plane and then broke upward toward the last two feet before it got to Jake. He didn’t see the movement until too late, and his glove missed completely. The ball knocked against his forehead near his hairline, and he tumbled backward, leaning against the rubber mat.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” I dropped my glove and ran over to him, hesitating to touch him. Four years ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to helping my best friend and next-door neighbor, but now, things seemed different. There were still tingles on my arms from where he’d helped demonstrate what I was doing wrong a few minutes ago, and I could only imagine what would happen if I touched him again.

Jake rubbed his forehead with his hand, his one eye closed. “Since when did you get the ball to break like that? I don’t remember your riseball moving so much.”

“It might have been my favorite pitch to practice after you stopped hanging out with me. Now it’s my best pitch.” I gave him a small smile, my gaze alternating between his forehead and his deep brown eyes. “I’ve got a few ice packs in the house. Do you want to come in and get one? Or do you want me to bring it out here?”

Jake paused a few seconds, and part of me wondered if I’d interpreted this weird relationship wrong from the start of the day.

“I’ll just wait out here.”

I turned and ran inside to grab an ice pack from the freezer. Grabbing a towel from the kitchen, I wrapped it around the cold pack for insulation. Then again, with how he’d made fun of me just before I pitched it, a little frozen skin might do Jake some good.

“Here, let me see it,” I said, kneeling in front of him.

---